


On the Uses of Dogs in the Work of the Detective

by sanguinity



Series: Monographs [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: ACD Canon References, Gen, invisible library
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-15
Updated: 2014-02-15
Packaged: 2018-01-12 14:15:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1188282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sanguinity/pseuds/sanguinity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Redbeard would have been the best dog a Detective could hope for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On the Uses of Dogs in the Work of the Detective

**Author's Note:**

> Set sometime long after S3, when John is living at Baker Street again.
> 
> Half-inspired by the [Invisible Ficathon](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/Invisible_Ficathon_2014/): Fanfiction for Stories that Never Were.

When Sherlock finally wound his way back to Baker street, John was still awake, tucked up on the sofa in his stocking-feet. John briefly glanced up at Sherlock before returning his gaze to his laptop. "One of these days you're going to run into an actual constable in that get-up, and I'm not going to bail you out."

Sherlock snorted, peeling off the reflective _accoutrement_ of the Metropolitan Police. "Don't need you. I have Lestrade for that." 

John made an indeterminate noise, engrossed in whatever was on the screen. 

"Is that my laptop, John? How am I going to learn to respect your things if you never respect mine?"

John gave a half-laugh, but didn’t look up. "You gave me a password, you enormous hypocrite."

"Not for you to use for _porn_."

"Mm," John agreed.

Sherlock frowned, and reached for the jacket he had laid aside earlier.

"You really are an enormous hypocrite, you know," John said. "How long have you been going on about me 'romanticizing' cases on my blog?"

"Romanticized, sensationalized, overblown, drivel for the—" Sherlock obliged, but John interrupted him.

"—and here I find you’ve been writing up our cases for years, and not only romanticizing the hell out of them, but adding a _dog_ in."

Sherlock froze. John couldn't possibly be— That was buried in his monograph folder, where John had no business being.

"I suppose I should be grateful that I was only replaced outright in the pink lady case," John continued. "Although to be fair, there's no sense in putting down in writing that I—"

John just barely yanked his hands clear as Sherlock snapped the laptop shut and jerked it away. "What the hell was that for, Sherlock?"

"Rooting around in my private files, John!"

"Your monographs!" John protested. "Your monographs aren't private! They're all _tobacco ash_ and _finger calluses_ and _Cornish linguistics_ , for god's sake."

"And I would like to know why you were digging around in my monographs? There are plenty on the website to read, if you were having a much-belated fit of self-improvement."

"Oh, _nice_ ," John said, "I read your monographs, I'll have you know."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows at him, because John most evidently did not.

John looked defensive. "I read them sometimes when I can't sleep."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Oh, well _done_ , John. You read them for your insomnia _._ No wonder you can't tell Schipper's from Arcadia."

"Hey, now." John was beginning to look peeved. _Good_. "There's no need to be like that. Those are good stories. They could make a killing on the children's market. Redbeard is a regular Lassie."

Sherlock inhaled sharply, his head drawing back. "Lassie is an insipid fantasy, an idealization to comfort children! I will thank you very much to acknowledge," Sherlock spat, "that Redbeard is not _Lassie._ "

"He is, a bit." Oh, John was smirking now. "Tracking a creosote trail across half of London? By rights, all those petrochemicals would have blown out his nose at the first sniff. No way could he track— Sherlock?"

Sherlock strode down the short hallway and slammed his door shut, hopefully in John's face.

"Sherlock!"

Sherlock dropped the laptop on the bed, and paced the short distance across the room. As if _John_ could talk. John hadn't even noticed the creosote, not until Sherlock pointed it out to him.

"Sherlock?" John's voice was right on the other side of the door.

Redbeard would so have been useful in the Work.

"Oh, c'mon, I really liked the Baskerville one," John cajoled. "Where you deduced that there _wasn't_ a hound, because Redbeard didn't bark at it. That was a clever twist, that."

Redbeard would have been the best dog a Detective could ever dream of working with.

"And the one where Redbeard smoked out the actor posing as Lady Beatrice? I mean, it's a little shocking, seeing you hand off credit to a dog, but..."

Sherlock snatched up a mug and hurled it at where John's head would be on the other side of the door. John gave a satisfying yelp, and Sherlock resumed his pacing.

_Redbeard._


End file.
